


Negotiations

by Canon_Is_Relative, ImpishTubist



Series: Winter's Child [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual!Sherlock, Asexuality Issues, Language, M/M, Paternal!Lestrade, Sexual Situations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:36:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John are in the process of becoming something more after the events of "Reichenbach," but a disagreement threatens all they are to one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse, but is able to stand alone. Chronologically, this would be the beginning of the series.

John didn’t know where it had gone wrong – where  _he_ had gone wrong.

And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it, because he couldn’t even define what  _It_  was.  _It_ had started after Sherlock’s return from the dead - perhaps even before then, for they had been dancing around one another for months, or so it had felt to John, and as he watched Sherlock step out into space he'd felt his own heart stop beating and before he'd even hit the ground John had realised what he'd lost. And then Sherlock had returned, revived, reanimated,  _reappeared_ , another impossible feat on a whole list of impossibilities that made up Sherlock Holmes. They had come together - crashed, really - somewhere between Sherlock recounting the plot to fake his own death and John’s fist connecting with his jaw. From there it had been all lips and tongue and desperate, desperate snogging, so deep that John felt as though Sherlock had been trying to consume him.

Perhaps he had been.

Things had returned to their version of normal, except now there were casual brushes in the kitchen and stolen kisses in the stairwell and John’s  _If you leave me again, I swear I_ will  _kill you_  as they lay in the bed that had been John’s and was swiftly becoming  _theirs._ They didn’t do sex, because Sherlock didn’t and John was too drunk on his euphoria to bother questioning it too deeply.

Then  _It_  went horribly, horribly awry - and the worst part of it was, John hadn’t even noticed until it was too late.

 

They had wormed their way into the office of a man named Daniel Brooke, because Sherlock was following a hunch on a case for Lestrade and John, as usual, was following Sherlock. He’d been tasked with chatting with the secretary, turning on the charm while Sherlock prowled the waiting area, looking for details that only he could piece together. And then, somewhere between posing as health inspectors and going through Brooke’s records and having to climb out of a window in order to escape, Sherlock had become tense and cold. 

The mood followed them home to Baker Street, and John was nearly at his breaking point when finally Sherlock turned to him and said,  “You’re seeing someone.”

“What?” John blurted, horrified. “No - Sherlock, no, of course I’m not! Why would you say that?”

Sherlock’s glare was thunderous, and the intensity of it almost made John shrink back in alarm. But he held his ground even as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled and stood on end.

“No,” he said, low and dangerous. “No, you’re right, you’re not - but you  _want_ to.”

“That’s absurd,” John shot back, mind spinning. He was losing control of this conversation, and fast. “When have I ever -”

“This afternoon,” Sherlock cut in, answering the question before it’d even been asked. “When we were at Daniel Brooke’s office - the secretary gave you his phone number.”

“Well - yeah, he did, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to  _act_ on it.”

“You could have refused.”

“Of course I could have - and I ordinarily would, but I thought that it’d be best to stay in his good graces, ‘least until we can get this case cleared up. Or would you rather have him refuse to talk to us?”

“He’s irrelevant,” Sherlock said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I already ruled him out as the killer.”

“But maybe he knows -”

“Stop making excuses,” Sherlock hissed, very close now. John could smell the hours-old coffee on his breath. “And anyway, your actions toward him are irrelevant as well - whether or not you had accepted his phone number, one could see the signs of arousal on you from  _miles_ off.  _He_  certainly did!"

“And so what if he did?” John snapped. “What if I  _was_ flattered that someone found me attractive? I won’t deny it, Sherlock; it felt  _good_. And what if I was happy that here someone was looking at me because he  _wanted to fuck me?_  It was a nice change, you know.”

It felt, in that moment, as though all the air had been sucked from the room. Nothing moved; even the clock on the mantel was silent. He and Sherlock might well have been statues.

“John, we have been over this,” Sherlock said, voice very low. “I want  _you_. All of you. And I always have, even if I don’t find you sexually attractive. I don’t find  _anyone_ sexually attractive.”

“Well, I do,” John found himself saying harshly. “And I have needs, too, sometimes.”

Sherlock was quivering with fury now; his lips had thinned to a white line. “I thought - John, I gave you  _every_ out; every opportunity to say that this wasn’t what you wanted. I have indulged you -”

“ _Indulged_ me? Is that what this is now? Some fucking chore? Well, thank you,  _Sherlock_ , for condescending to my lowly and disgusting desires. You think you’re so much better than all of us, don’t you, since you don’t need to  _fuck_?”

“I have never once, John, indicated that I view you as something less, but it’s quite obvious that you’ve felt that way all along about me. When did it change?” Sherlock was near bellowing now, and it struck John that he had never heard the man raise his voice in quite that way before. “When did you decide that I  _wasn’t enough_?”

“Would it kill you?” John bellowed finally. “Would it bloody kill you to fuck me? Just once in a while, stick your bloody cock in me?”

"That's not how it  _works_  -"

"No," John cut him off, breathing hard. "No, you're right. It works however you decide it works. Whatever suits you best in the moment. I've never known anyone, Sherlock, so good at rewriting reality to suit his own needs."

"What," Sherlock threw his arms out, eyes blown wide as he shouted, "do you want from me, John? What more can I  _possibly -_ "

"Nothing.  _Nothing._  Just - just  _stop._ I don't..." John dragged air into his lungs in ragged breaths, running his hands through his hair and turning shakily towards the door. "I just need..."

_To get out._  

John left the flat without his jacket.

Half a mile away from Baker Street his phone chirped at him and he pulled it out to find a text from Sherlock.

_ Go find someone to stick your cock in and don't come back until you're rational. And showered. _

He stopped in his tracks, read the text three times, shoved his phone back in his pocket and sprinted back the way he'd come.

The flat was silent when he arrived, gasping, on the doorstep.

"Sherlock!" He looked into every room, venting his outrage in shouting his flatmate's name. " _Sherlock!_ "

Too angry to sit, he paced the living room, kicking things until he'd worn himself out. Finally, he sent Sherlock a text.

_ If you really think I would do that, tell me now. If you're just being a fucking idiot and trying to upset me, congratulations you've done it. I'll be at home waiting for you to come to your fucking senses. _

\---- 

Lestrade heard Sherlock before he saw him, which was more warning than he usually got when the detective got it in his mind to visit.

“Out here,” he called through the open window to his living room and Sherlock clambered through, perching next to him on the fire escape. There was something in the man’s demeanour tonight, a pinched quality to his face and tension in his shoulders, that told Lestrade something had happened. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head and wordlessly picked his pocket for a cigarette, Lestrade's automatic protest interrupted by a text alert from Sherlock's phone; he was standing close enough to the detective to see the way he went still at the sound, and when he fished in his pocket a moment later it was for a lighter, not the phone.

Lestrade blew a stream of smoke up toward the stars and came to the obvious conclusion. “You and John have a fight?”

“I suppose that is one way of looking at it,” Sherlock said at length. “A  _domestic_ , as Mrs. Hudson is so fond of saying.”

“Ah, well,” Lestrade said with a small smile. “You know the answer to that one, don’t you? Just go apologize, say you were wrong and he was right all along, and it’ll all be fine. Worked well enough in my marriage.”

But that was most definitely  _not_ the right thing to say and Lestrade could see, as Sherlock lit the cigarette and brought it to his lips, that his hands had started to shake.

“Hey,” Lestrade said softly, taking the lighter from him and turning so he could look his companion full in the face, “what’s happened?”

“It’s not going to work,” Sherlock said bluntly.

“Yes, it will.” Lestrade was firm, not bothering to ask him what  _it_  was - he wasn't an idiot and Sherlock was apparently too worked up to care that they were breaking the carefully cultivated silence they usually kept around their personal lives. “It’s absolutely going to work. You two were made for one another. Doesn’t mean it’s gonna be easy, but it’ll work. You’ve been through hell and back, twice now. I don’t think there’s anything left that can scare John off.”

“And yet, you’d be wrong,” was all Sherlock offered. Lestrade frowned.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly.”

“Right, then.” He finished his cigarette and ground it out on the cool metal of the fire escape. He contemplated another and shoved his hands in his pockets instead, balling them into fists, trying to ignore the urge. He really did need to cut back, if not stop completely. Again. “You need to kip on the sofa tonight?”

Sherlock’s soft, “I hope not,” made him wonder what exactly John had said to him, and Lestrade couldn’t help the small burst of anger that flared in his chest. He wondered if John realized the power he held over Sherlock. He could build him up or cut him down with just a phrase or two. Sherlock, built up, was an astounding thing; Sherlock, cut down, was devastating and frightening to behold. And John could do either without a second thought, whether he realized it or not.

“I suppose it was misguided of me,” Sherlock mused at length, “to assume that I would be capable of maintaining a normal – of keeping up my end of a relationship.”

“No, you wouldn’t be able to keep up a  _normal_ relationship,” Lestrade said, and Sherlock looked at him, startled. “A relationship, of course. A normal one - not really, but what interest have you or John ever had in normalcy?”

“In this instance, I’m afraid the abnormalities are a bit too much for John to handle.” Sherlock took a draw on the cigarette, and said, “I’m not interested.”

“Hey?” Lestrade blinked at him. “What’s this, now?”

“Sex. Not interested in it.” Sherlock said, and Lestrade watched his eyes dart to him twice before fixing on the building across from them. Nervous, then. Interesting. 

Lestrade couldn’t say that he was terribly surprised by the announcement, and felt as though it was one he and Sherlock had been dancing around for years. He had never known the other man to take more than a passing interesting in another person – at least, not until John had entered the picture. 

“This doesn’t mean I am incapable of forming the same attachments that one does if one is sexual,” Sherlock went on, a tad defensive. “I simply have chosen not to, as relationships are generally a distraction and… _tedious_.”

The  _But then John came along_  hung unspoken in the air between them. 

“I never said you were incapable of it.” Lestrade shrugged. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Sherlock. Or anyone. I’ve never thought for a moment that you don’t care for John - and it’s plain that he feels the same.”

“Does he?” Sherlock said idly. “Interesting.”

“Why’s that interesting?”

But Sherlock didn’t answer.

“Sherlock,” he said finally, his voice low, “what did John say to you?”

“Nothing, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied. He sounded defeated. 

“I swear, if he said anything - if he’s trying to pressure you into something -” Lestrade broke off. “He’s my friend, yes. But don’t think for a moment I’d pick him over you. Now, come on, let’s go inside. This wind’s damned bitter; you’ll catch cold if you stay out here.”

He found an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and a cotton tee for Sherlock to wear, and dug out some blankets and extra pillows to make up the sofa. He wished Sherlock good night, and privately hoped that a night’s rest would take care of Sherlock’s hollow eyes hunched shoulders. 


	2. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are in the process of becoming something more after the events of "Reichenbach," but a disagreement threatens all they are to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse, but is able to stand alone. Chronologically, this would be the beginning of the series.

It's nearly one in the morning, early by Sherlock's standards. Or late. Or middling. Depending on how he was looking at time relative to days. He's sitting on Lestrade's couch, head in his hands, the ticking of the clock driving him mad as he tries desperately to bring time back under his control, spiralling closer and closer to the realization that it's John who's been grounding him, these past several months; John who provided a centre of gravity around which he could orbit freely. A sense of time and place and rightness that allowed his mind to soar to ever-greater heights.

_A kite on a string._

_No. Delete that._

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until sparks explode painfully against a backdrop that is frightening in its vastness.

The battery is dying on his phone--left the charger at Baker Street and Lestrade's is not compatible--and the warning beep is jarring as he presses it to his ear, the line already ringing.

John doesn't answer.

The phone rings through to voicemail, and Sherlock hangs on through the automated message and then the soft, _John Watson._ It's brief, less than two seconds, but the familiar tenor shoots to the base of his spine, grounding him, and then just as quickly it's over.

John could be asleep, he tells himself. Or in another room; perhaps he didn't hear his phone.

But he knows that both of these are lies. John is ignoring him; John doesn't want to speak to him.

What if John never wants to speak to him again?

That thought is horrifying, and leaves him reeling. Something unpleasant squeezes his chest, so hard that his heart stutters and he forgets for a moment to breathe. He presses the palm of his hand against his sternum, willing his bodily functions back under his control, trying desperately to regain some sense of himself.

A hallway light clicks on behind him.

"Sunshine?"

\----

John's been lying on the couch with his phone pressed against his chest. He does this when Sherlock's away - keeps the phone close just in case. In case the git gets himself in trouble or Lestrade calls to say Sherlock's been taken to the A&E or just in case the bloody fuck stupid _idiot_ is feeling a bit sentimental and just wants to say hello.

Relief washes over him followed far too quickly by anger. Damn right Sherlock should be the one to come grovelling to him, this time. For fucks sake, why was _he_ the one waiting by the phone, pining after the stupid detective like some bloody teenager. _Christ._ The phone stopped ringing before he could decide what he wanted to yell at Sherlock first.

And then as soon as it goes silent and dark, regret settles in his stomach and he curls up on his side, cradling the stupid bit of metal and plastic, waiting to see if he'll leave a voicemail.

He doesn't, of course. And after fighting with himself for a full five minutes, John sends,

_I thought you preferred to text?_

\---

Sherlock's head snaps up and he glares at Lestrade. _Infuriating_ how the sudden light makes his head swim and his vision blur. He hisses sharply through his teeth, dropping back down on the couch and hiding his eyes behind his arm.

" _What_ , Lestrade?"

"I can hear you thinking all the way down the hallway," Lestrade tells him and, much to Sherlock's annoyance, moves aside his feet and drops onto the opposite end of the sofa. He's dressed in pyjamas and a worn jumper; no dressing gown. "And brooding. Have you been calling him?"

Sherlock would deny it, but his mobile has been abandoned on his chest and it's all-too-obvious what he's been doing, even to someone as dull as Lestrade.

"He's not answering," Sherlock says finally, biting out the words. Lestrade nods and pats his knee; Sherlock resists the urge to move away.

"He might need some space," Lestrade says.

"Not from _me_ ," Sherlock growls, and at that moment his phone comes to life. He snatches it off his chest and sees that he's received a text from John. He wishes Lestrade would leave; he wants to answer this in _private_. And then he wonders why he thought that at all, because he's not talking aloud to John and it's not as though anyone can actually see the screen - especially not now that his phone gives one last feeble flash and goes dark, the battery exhausted.

"Go away," he growls anyway, irrational and hating himself for it.

Lestrade doesn't move.Instead, he huffs and shakes his head, squeezing Sherlock's knee. "This would be my couch in my flat, if you'll remember. Are you going to answer that?"

"Are you going to stop inquiring into matters that don't concern you?" Sherlock's rage flares up, bright and hot and directed at Lestrade for lack of a better target.

Lestrade returns his stare and says coolly, "When you invade my flat and make my life a living hell for days on end, I think it becomes my business, sunshine."

" _Stop_ calling me that," Sherlock grinds out between clenched teeth, fighting very hard against the urge to hurl the now-useless mobile into the wall, settling for pushing himself up and curling into a ball with knees against his chest, as far away from Lestrade as he can get without leaving the couch. "I'm not your bloody _child_ and I won't be coddled. If my presence is really so irksome I'm sure I could find a dozen places I'd rather spend my time than here with you."

Lestrade says nothing to that. He simply gets up off the sofa and returns to his room, and Sherlock can't explain it but the man's abrupt departure leaves him feeling suddenly cold.

_Don't leave me, too; I've already lost John and Jack and my father, who I never had in the first place but it stings all the same -_

His moment of self-pity is cut abruptly short, though, when Lestrade returns from his bedroom and tosses something at Sherlock. He catches it deftly in his left hand and looks away, hoping that Lestrade wouldn't have seen his face. Even in the dark, he knows the man can read him as surely as if he were an open book. He hates it, most days. But in the early days, when it was just the two of them after Jack's death - he'd been grateful for that. It saved him from trying to voice the things that he couldn't, and saved Lestrade by giving him someone to care for. It focused his attentions elsewhere, away from his all-consuming grief and crumbling marriage.

"What's this for?" Sherlock asks, realizing that he held Lestrade's mobile in his hand.

"Texting," Lestrade says simply. "Your phone's dead. You need to talk to John. Seems like the best solution, yeah? He'll know right away it isn't me, and you can delete anything you don't want me to see afterwards. I'm not that tech-savvy; wouldn't be able to recover them. Not that I'd want to."

He resumes his place on the sofa, slouching down and folding his hands in his lap and closing his eyes. "And I'm gonna sit right here 'til you're done."

\---

John stares at the text on his screen, disoriented; there's only one name on his mind, one person in the small, dark world of misery he's built around himself, and it takes longer than it should to figure out who the hell _Lestrade_ is. At last he texts back,

_Added theft to your list of transgressions, have you?_

\----

_Lestrade gave it to me_ , Sherlock texts back, jabbing at the keys harder than he normally would have. Lestrade cracks an eye open to regard him curiously, then closes it once again. Probably doesn't want to really know what's going on.

_I'm supposed to believe that, am I?_

_Why wouldn't you? -SH_

_You've lied to me before. Forgotten Baskerville already, have we? Adler’s convenient escape from execution?_

Sherlock closes his fist around the mobile.

He wants to scream, _We have been over this!_ He wants a row, and he wants it now. He wants to be standing in the living room at Baker Street, with John in the kitchen or by the fireplace, a good amount of distance between the two of them because they know they'll only hurt each other without that particular precaution. It's happened before - John's ended up with a busted lip or up against the wall, wrists slammed above his head and a furious Sherlock looming over him. Sherlock's had his share of black eyes in return. They've both bellowed themselves hoarse and then some.

Sherlock wants that - all of that - right now. He doesn't want to be sitting on the sofa in the peace and quiet with Lestrade sitting calm next to him and a clock ticking lazily away in the kitchen. It's too still, too _content_ a backdrop for the life that is slowly falling apart around him.

It should end with a bang; not with a whimper.

\----

_I'm supposed to believe that, am I?_

_Why wouldn't you? -SH_

_You've lied to me before. Forgotten Baskerville already, have we? Adler’s convenient escape from execution?_

When Sherlock doesn't reply right away, John sits up and swings his feet off the couch, hissing as they connect with the cold floor. The flat was always _bloody fuck freezing_ and Sherlock never lifted a finger to do anything about it. What the hell would Sherlock do without him, anyway? Forget to eat, to wash, to pay the rent or empty the trash. No - no, that's right, he'd be _fine_ , because he'd always have Lestrade there to step in and pick up after him. Jesus bloody Christ. He'd probably let Sherlock just move in with him for good, if John kicked him out of Baker street.

His stomach bottoms out, his heart trying desperately to hide behind that shield of anger and outrage that's kept him going for this long. He pushes himself up off the couch, pacing to the window, all the restlessness, all the anxiety, all the fear and indecision - everything that he was able to keep in check when Sherlock was around was coming out to play tonight. His hands are shaking, his leg aching so badly that he's afraid he might have to fish out his cane in the morning. He's under attack by his own body and he hasn't the faintest idea how to fight back, this time.

First the aluminium cane and that awful _tap tap tap_ that accompanied him everywhere, invading even his dreams. Then the wild-eyed detective with that wretched grin and suddenly _John_ was the accompaniment, following Sherlock everywhere, even into bed. What would be next - what would his next crutch look like? Drugs, like Sherlock? Drink, like Lestrade? Something new altogether? He supposed he could pull of the workaholic thing; there were always lives to be saved.

But what was his life without Sherlock? Christ, what a question. He'd never had anything like this before. He didn't know what he was supposed to feel, or how this was supposed to go. He felt what he could only imagine people who sighed over movies wished they felt, and good God he'd never wanted it to come to this. A normal life, that's all he'd wanted. He was to go to medical school and meet a nice person who'd share his home and his life and quibble with him over what show to watch after dinner and what to name the cat. That's what he'd been prepared for. _This_...this is madness. People aren't meant to feel like this, that's all he figures he knows. He's caught in the gravity well of something he can't explain or even justify to himself, and he's going to burn up, he knows it, if he doesn't break orbit now.

His forehead pressed to the cold glass of the windowpane brings him back down slowly, back to earth, back to his senses. He feels worn down beyond belief and hates the sick twist in his stomach when he realizes that his body is wishing for Sherlock to be here to curl up with. He always sleeps better when Sherlock can be convinced or coerced into joining him in bed.

But no, Sherlock is not here. Sherlock is off somewhere - no; not _somewhere._ He's with Lestrade. _He's_ not alone. And on that thought he's biting the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, hands shaking as he types,

_So what's happened to your mobile, then? Put it through Lestrade's wall so he lent you his? Not surprising, you could get that man to overlook a murder for you with the right word or two._

\----

Sherlock's hands start shaking the moment John's text comes through. Anger - true _fury_ \- coils in his stomach, and for a moment he can see nothing but blazing _white_. He shuts his eyes, trying to regulate his breathing and heartbeat - it would do no good to start breaking things at Lestrade's flat, though he was desperate to hurl that awful lamp sitting on the table next to the sofa at a wall or out the window - and then taps out a furious reply.

 _You leave him out of this_.

The response is immediate. _Why? Something you're not telling me - again?_

So that's it. On top of everything else, John thought he wanted something more from Lestrade than what they already had. The idea was laughable, and Sherlock might have done so if the situation weren't so bloody _idiotic_. How could he possibly think Sherlock would want anything - or anyone - other than John? Hadn't he showed John that repeatedly? Hadn't he been clear in his intentions, and his wants? Where had he gone wrong - and how could he possibly make it more obvious?

And why did John have to bring Lestrade into it? Because while there were many things Sherlock will tolerate on a day-to-day basis from other people - needing to eat, for example, at regular intervals during the day, or needing to sleep at night - there were a few he will not. Insulting Lestrade is one of them.

Only he is allowed to do that.

  
Sherlock can’t think of anything to say to that, and it's obvious that John is past the point of reasoning right now. He carefully erases the messages they'd sent, closes the mobile and sets it on Lestrade’s thigh.    
  
The older man cracks open his eyes. “Finished?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gives a jerky nod, and remembers to add, “Thank you.”

He expects Lestrade to leave. Instead, the older man draws a breath and asks, “D’you feel up to working on a case for me? Nothing major, just a cold one I’ve been knocking about for a few weeks now. Could use a fresh pair of eyes.”  
  
A case. _Yes_ , that is what he needs right now. He needs the clarity and order that the work brings to his mind; he needs the challenge of the puzzle and the thrill of the chase.

And perhaps, if he tried, he could make the work be enough.  

“Good. Come around noon; I can get it to you then.”

Lestrade squeezes his shoulder, and wishes him good night.


	3. Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are in the process of becoming something more after the events of "Reichenbach," but a disagreement threatens all they are to one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Operates in the "Winter's Child" 'verse, but is able to stand alone. Chronologically, this would be the beginning of the series.

It was four days since he'd last seen Sherlock. After that first night, John had kept to stubborn silence. For once he hadn't been in the wrong - for once it was Sherlock who'd jumped to false conclusions, who'd said all the wrong things, who would need to come crawling back to apologize. John had been sleeping on the sofa in their living room, waiting and hoping that Sherlock would turn up.

  
He'd woken that morning to a call from the Yard - Lestrade's secretary requesting he come down to sign off on the Haversham case. He'd pulled himself together, wondering if Sherlock was going to be there too, and gone.  


  
Sherlock's back was to the door when John arrived at Lestrade’s office; his shoulders hunched, hands tucked into his pockets. The normally neat lines of his so-familiar silhouette were rumpled and mussed. He was studying something on the floor in front of him, listening to whatever Lestrade was saying in low tones that did not carry words to John's ear, just an impression of worry; of care and concern. In a similar way that his hand on Sherlock's shoulder broadcasted the DI's concern for him. One might go so far as to say  _affection._  John forced himself to unclench his hands, nails peeling away from his skin and leaving sharp crescents of pain in each palm. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, preparing to walk into the office.  


  
And then Lestrade shook Sherlock lightly, giving him a small smile, and this time John could make out his words,  _Don't worry, Sunshine, I've got you,_ as Sherlock turned to look at Lestrade, his profile looking so very worn, to John, his eyes so tired, his skin so pale...his nose so close to Lestrade's, as he looked into his eyes, his lips parting slightly. And John saw the tremor go through him as he nodded, bowing his head to rest his forehead against Lestrade's.  


_Leave him out of this,_ Sherlock had said. Fucking _hell._  


  
When John returned, half an hour later, he had control of himself and the shaking of his hands, and Sherlock was gone.  


  
He was so angry that it took nearly ten full minutes of silence as he completed his paperwork before he realised that Lestrade was behaving just as coldly towards him. A frosty silent treatment that smacked of anger, not guilt. John scrawled his final signature and handed the stack across and, confusion warring with his better sense, he met Lestrade's eyes.  


  
The DI's lips thinned and he accepted the forms wordlessly. John stood to go. He almost made it to the door before Lestrade spoke.  


  
"I hope you know what you're doing, Watson."  


  
That stopped him flat. He couldn't remember the last time Lestrade had called him by his surname. He turned slowly, arms held stiffly at his sides, waiting for the punchline. It was a long time coming as Lestrade surveyed him across the cluttered island of his desk,  but when the words dropped they hit John like a ton of bricks  


  
"You're losing him. And you're doing nothing to stop it."  


  
"I could be wrong, Inspector," John's voice was just as chilly as Lestrade's, "but I  _think_ that's none of your--"  


  
"It's very much my business. You should see him, you have no idea what this has done to him. Are you really too thick to realise that he is the best thing that's ever happened to you and you're just--"  


  
"If he's so bloody miserable," John found himself shouting, "then let him come and talk to me himself! Why are you--"  


  
"Because," Lestrade bellowed back, standing to lean across his desk, eyes flashing, "he's a great bloody  _idiot_  and he's got it in his head you don't care for him and he's trying to--"  


  
"I'm not listening to this," John snapped, spinning on his heel and marching for the door.   


  
"John," Lestrade's voice was soft. Pleading. John paused with his hand on the door handle but didn't turn. "Please. Whatever it was he did, he's ready to beg your forgiveness if he thought there was the smallest chance you'd give it. I know that's not how arguments are usually resolved and I've tried to tell him that, tell him he should talk to you even without that assurance. But you know how he is. He just...he doesn't understand how these things work. He's...he's like a child. He thinks the world's ended because you've had an argument."  


  
Lestrade sounded so hesitant, so uncomfortable to be giving this kind of advice, unsolicited, to even be talking about Sherlock in this way, that although John let his hand fall away from the door he still did not turn. He didn't think they could handle eye contact  _and_  words.   


  
"It wasn't just an argument, Lestrade. It was...bad. The kind of thing that makes you question if it could ever work and if it's even worth it to try. We've hit a disconnect and I don't know there's any way to fix it. Trying might just make it worse, down the road."  


  
"That doesn't sound like you. Not the John Watson Sherlock's madly in love with." John blinked and hunched his shoulders.  _Did he say that to you when he hasn't even said it to me? Dammit, Sherlock._  "I didn't think you were afraid of anything."  


  
"Didn't say I was afraid, did I?" But oh, God, he was. Terrified, even. These last few days had been unbearable. John had never been one to depend on one other person - not like this. In the war, in Afghanistan, it had been different; he'd depended on his men, his team, for survival. This felt too much like that, and all that John had ever heard made him think that that was very unhealthy.   


  
"No," Lestrade said finally, and John heard the squeak of rusty wheels as he pulled out his desk chair, and the heavy sigh of the DI - his friend; their friend - as he sank down into it. "No, you didn't say that. And neither did he. But I know you both too well, and I'm not an idiot. Just...think on it, all right, John? That's all I'm asking. I didn't...well. Let's just say, after all I've been through with that one, I'd rather not lose him to something so mundane as a broken heart, eh?"  


  
The sound John made sounded more like he was choking than laughing, but he tried to pass it off, turning to look at Lestrade and lifting the corners of his mouth. He gave a brief nod and reached for the door handle. Lestrade, mercifully, had nothing left to say.  


  
\---  


  
His leg was still bothering him so he took the elevator. He punched the button for the ground floor and leaned against the wall, forehead pressed against the cool metal.  


  
The door slid open and he stepped out into the hallway, the first bend in the corridor bringing him face-to-shoulder with a familiar black coat. He pulled up short but the muttered curse proved less easy to recall than his forward momentum. Sherlock turned to face him, looking quite as startled as he felt.  


  
"Sorry," John stumbled over his words, half-turning back toward the elevator, "I'll just - "  


  
"No," Sherlock said quickly, his right hand twitching away from his side. "No. That is - Don't."  


  
John crossed his arms, feeling his defences grind into place, erecting a wall between himself and Sherlock. "Don't what?"  


  
"Don't go."  


  
John frowned at him, opening his mouth to ask _Why_ when the sound of Sherlock's mobile split the charged silence between them. The detective silenced it with an impatient sigh. It began to ring again immediately.   


  
"What _is_ it, Lestrade?" John could hear the tinny sound of Lestrade's voice, muffled against Sherlock's cheek, and the lines around Sherlock's eyes relaxed just for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards. "Yes. Of course. Front corridor by the elevators." Sherlock hung up and slipped the phone into his pocket, tension creeping back into his face as he refocused on John. "Double homicide, just called in, apparently. Battersea."  


  
"Ah." John shifted his weight, eyes slipping away from Sherlock's as the sound of several pairs of feet came hurrying toward them.  


  
Lestrade looked surprised to see them standing there, together, and spared a moment for a quick grin and a nod before Sherlock was firing off questions and they were striding away, Donovan and Smith hurrying to catch up.   


  
They were nearly at the front door before Sherlock called over his shoulder, "Coming, John?"  


  
\---  


 

  
It might have been a new record, even for Sherlock. Two minutes at the crime scene and he'd hailed a cab without a word of explanation, grinning to himself as he tapped furiously away at his mobile. John had followed in a car with Donovan, who must have been briefed on the state of things between them as she remained mercifully silent as she drove.  


  
Three hours later the case was wrapped, the suspect in custody, and the Yarders on their way down to the pub to celebrate. John watched Lestrade clap Sherlock on the shoulder and earnestly entreat him to join them. Donovan's earlier silence in the car seemed less kind now as she added her voice to Lestrade's, telling Sherlock a night out would do him good. John watched in astonishment to see Lestrade's crew rallying around Sherlock, the man whom they’d believed a fraud and responsible for nearly costing their boss his job not two years ago **.** No one asked John if he'd like to join them.  


  
But Sherlock resisted their invitations, insisting he still had work to do in the morgue and Yes, Lestrade, he would be _fine._ John didn't miss the glance Lestrade directed his way as he squeezed Sherlock's arm one last time, nor the way Sherlock's eyes followed the DI out the door.  


  
Alone with Sherlock at last, John shuffled his feet, hands buried in his pockets. "Sherlock..."  


  
"How did I know so quickly?" Sherlock asked, not looking at John. “Well, it was obvious from the soil on the bottom of her shoe -”  


  
“No, Sherlock -”

“ - also, her clothes were all wrong for the occasion -”

“ _Sherlock_ -”

“ - not to mention the fact that -”

“Sherlock, are you in love with Lestrade?”

His blunt question, asked at a near-shout, had the desired effect. Sherlock ground to a halt mid-sentence, stupefied, and stared at John.

_“What?”_

John held his ground, arms crossed over his chest.

“I _said_ ,” he growled, “are you in love with Lestrade?”

“Don’t be ridiculo -”

“Don’t call me ridiculous!” John snapped. “You accused me out of bloody nowhere of seeing someone behind your back - is that why, you were projecting because you have your own secret? This happens every time we fight - even when we don’t fight, sometimes! You always go to him. You sleep over at his flat, you take smoke breaks with him at the Yard - yes, you do, don’t even try to hide that from me. You _always_ go to him first.”

“Not always,” Sherlock said softly. “I came back to you, first, after -”

But he broke off, catching himself, because he knew as well as anyone that John hated to be reminded of the time when he thought Sherlock was dead. He preferred to keep it tucked back in the corner of his mind, buried under layers of dust and forgotten.   


  
“It never occurred to you,” Sherlock said finally, rubbing his arm absently (on the inside of his elbow, an old habit, rubbing the place where the needles would slip into his skin), “that I could have a - be _close to_ someone in a way that wasn’t romantic? Do you really believe me incapable of that?”

“You’re deflecting,” John said hotly. “Tell me. What is he to you?”

“He’s the reason I’m alive today,” Sherlock said bluntly. “In a sense, at least.”

“What the _hell_ does that mean?”

“It means,” Sherlock growled, anger beginning to bubble to the surface, “that if not for him, I would be dead and we never would have met. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Well, what do you mean, _in a sense_?”

“That’s not important at this moment,” Sherlock said, still stony. “Perhaps, one day, I’ll explain. But you must realize that I go to him for a reason, and you have to trust that it has nothing to do with... _attraction_.”

“What then?” John snapped, still not understanding. What the hell else could Sherlock want with the man? He’d _seen_ them in Lestrade's office - he’d seen Sherlock’s expression; Lestrade’s tenderness; the touching.

“He -” Sherlock started, and then stopped. John waited out the silence. “I never had a father - or, to be more accurate, I never had what society considers a proper father to be. And Lestrade doesn't have children. I trust I don’t need to elaborate further than that. Or are you so thick that more explanation is necessary?”

John felt a rush of hot guilt slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. He’d never, not for a _moment_ , considered the fact that Sherlock’s childhood might have been anything less than stellar. He’d never taken the time to think that his friend was capable of a variety of relationships - just because he only felt, only _recognized_ , certain shades of emotion didn’t mean that the rest of his life was so black-and-white.

“I -” he licked his lips, cleared his throat. “I - I never realized that, Sherlock. I never thought -”

“Of course you didn’t,” Sherlock snapped, interrupting him. “You’re so focused on _sex_ that you can’t see past it and consider the fact that there might be more to my interpersonal relationships than _that_. You view the whole _bloody world_ through that one lens, and it makes you blind.”

John took a step back. It wasn’t like Sherlock to swear, not when he had witty and biting retorts in his repertoire, and the fact that he did so now felt like the equivalent of punching the wall in anger.

“There’s only you, John,” Sherlock continued, soft, forcing the words out even as his fists clenched  - in frustration? Anger? Fury at having to admit that he _needed_ someone? “There’s only ever been you. I wish you could see that.”

But John did see it - and that was the problem. Because these past few nights without Sherlock were nearly as unbearable as when Sherlock had been dead; perhaps even more so, because Sherlock had chosen to be apart from him and that _ached_ , as though a red-hot ember had settled in the pit of his stomach and was slowly burning him from the inside out. He couldn’t bear it, the thought that Sherlock would ever voluntarily want to be apart from him - or the thought that _he_ could exist without Sherlock. The very notion was absurd.

They couldn’t exist apart, but he doubted they could exist together, and that was the cruelest part of it all. They were two halves of a very particular whole, and yet they _couldn’t_ fit. They wouldn’t fit.

_That doesn’t sound like the John Watson I know._

John sat down heavily in the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands. Sherlock continued to stand some feet away, staring at him, waiting.

“You don’t like sex,” John said finally, processing. “You aren’t interested. And yet you want...me.”

“All of you,” Sherlock said in a low voice, and it sent a shiver down John’s spine.

“All right,” John said slowly, and licked his lips. Oh, he was done for; had been for ages. It was bloody terrifying.

And really, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Then...why don’t you tell me what it is you _do_ like.”  


  
The silence lasted for so long that John finally lifted his head, looking up to find Sherlock's eyes fixed on his face.   


  
"That," Sherlock said at last, choosing each word deliberately, "is a question for another time and place."  
  
  
"Oh, Sherlock, come on -"  


  
"Please, John."  


  
John blinked and looked hard at him, trying to read whatever emotions he might be keeping captive behind his impassive mask. His defences rising once again, he strove to keep his voice neutral. "We can hardly talk about it later if you keep hiding out at Lestrade's, can we?"  


  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he drew himself up. "As ever, John - "  


  
"As ever, I'm an idiot. Yeah, I get it. Will you come home?" The words echoed in the chilly silence of the morgue. John drew in a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eye. "Please. Sherlock. Please, just...just come home. Will you?"  


  
Sherlock's hands flexed in his pockets and his eyes flicked across John's face, running over him from his chin to his toes before once again meeting his gaze and nodding once. "Yes."  


  
John felt his knees go weak and fought to keep from trembling. Or grinning. Or grabbing Sherlock and attacking his lips. He managed a brisk nod and a soft, "Good. I'll wait for you." Then he turned and walked out of the building.  


  
\---  


  
John loved Sherlock. He really, truly did. He had never been so sure about anything, anyone, as he was about Sherlock. But alongside that surety, that absolute conviction that he _loved_ Sherlock, that he _needed_ him, came a fierce desire to strike him. To shake him, to claw out his heart, to _destroy_ him - to _make him know_ how he felt; to _make him feel_ how much it hurt to love him.   


  
The wild beast in his chest howled in rage as he squared off against Sherlock, half the room between them because Sherlock would not move from his place by the door, ready to run. John had been waiting for him to come home since he left him in Bart's morgue, and a little past midnight he had once again fallen asleep on the couch - still waiting. Sunlight stained the sky and the sounds of the morning commuters could be heard in the street below when he finally awoke to Sherlock's soft step in the doorway and, tact worn blunt by fitful sleep and a crick in his neck, he'd demanded sharply to know where the _hell_ he'd been. The shutters had slammed shut behind Sherlock's eyes and he'd given John little more than chilly monosyllables in reply, growing colder as John grew hotter, trying to force a reaction from him.  


__  
  
Love isn't supposed to feel like this!  
  
  
  
The words lodged in his ribcage, that horrible chant set to the rhythm of his heartbeat for the past several days. _But how could it be any other way?_  


  
"You treat  _every fight_  like it's the end of the world! And you have no idea - no. No, you know what? Sod this." John crossed the room to jab a finger in Sherlock's chest, his voice growing soft as he glared up at Sherlock. "You don't get to do this to me. You know what the end of the world is? It's watching your best friend fucking  _kill himself_  in front of you. All right? It's when the only person in the world I love decides to  _jump off a building_  while I watch.  _That_ , Sherlock, is the end of the world. And we both survived that, so don't you dare tell me we're not going to make it through this."  


  
He was breathing hard through his nose, his heart feeling like he'd just run ten miles through the jungle with snipers after him.  


  
Sherlock looked...blank. Well. He always looked blank. Well. Not always. Rarely, actually; not to John. His carefully cultivated poker face that didn't fool John for a second. Not anymore. But just now, Sherlock's face was actually, truly, devoid of expression and it was a terrifying thing to behold.  


  
He braced his hand against Sherlock's chest, searching for a heartbeat, searching for some flicker of acknowledgment from Sherlock that he was alive, that he was hearing this. "I waited, Sherlock. All that time. Thinking you were dead.  _Praying_  you weren't. I was all but dead myself. And we got through that, so who the _fuck_ are you to decide that this isn't going to work because in your head you've built this thing up to be...I mean...what the hell gives you the right to decide what is or isn't enough for me?"  


  
Sherlock moved like a snake, capturing John's wrist in his long fingers, holding him tight. Unblinking, Sherlock said softly, "Sarah. Julia. Moriah. Jeanette. Stephen. Cara. Fletcher. Laura. Liam. Mary."  


  
John's lips parted as Sherlock listed off every lover he'd had since meeting Sherlock, including the two he didn't think Sherlock had known about.  


  
"Hang on." John licked dry lips and tried desperately to pull his thoughts together. "You're telling me that because of whatever you think you've deduced from watching me with other people, you've decided that _we_ don't have a chance. Is that seriously what you're saying, Sherlock?"  


  
"I'm saying," Sherlock tightened his hold on John, "that you are...normal."  


  
"You really want to hear me say it?" John's tongue felt thick. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. "Should I tell you a nice story about how all those people were to distract me from you? You made it very plain, Sherlock, very quickly, that you were not and would not be interested in me, and now - " John broke off, bringing his free hand up to rub his stinging eyes. _God_ he needed to sleep. "Do you have any idea what it means for me to be with you like this?"  


  
Sherlock looked hard at him, eyes flicking over his face and down his body - cataloguing. John didn't try to hide anything from him.   


  
"You said just now that you love me," Sherlock began, almost tentative, gaining momentum as he went along. "You've never said that to me before, in fact you haven't said it aloud to anyone in - five years? Six? And then it was probably to your mother. You don't trust people quickly though you make friends easily - usually all the trust is on the other side and although you do feel guilty about it that guilt doesn't stop you from breaking that trust, just look at what you did to Sarah, and then to - "  


  
John shook his head sharply, interrupting. "You do see the common factor, don't you, Sherlock? It's always for you."  


  
"So you're asking me to believe that while you've lead a completely normal life thus far, in the blink of an eye, for me, you'd give it up."  


  
John lifted one shoulder, not looking away from Sherlock. "I'd hardly call it the blink of an eye, but...yeah. Yes." Sherlock's frown deepened and he began to look away. John shook him lightly. "What good is that _normal life_ if none of it means anything?"  


  
"You'll resent it," Sherlock said suddenly. Still with a death grip on John's wrist, he lifted his other hand to trail surprisingly gentle fingers along the line of John's jaw. "You'll resent me. Maybe not now, but in six months, in a year. It will happen, John. How can you live, knowing I don't want you in that way?"  


  
"You're not _listening_ to me, "John got out through gritted teeth, fighting against the little shivers of pleasure Sherlock's touch sent coursing through him.   


  
"But I am. I heard what you said the other day. You wanted me to _stick my bloody cock in you_ like that was all there was to it, like that would solve all the problems of the world."  


  
"Sherlock - no. I was an _idiot_ the other day. I should never have said that - I don't know why I did, I was angry - "   


  
"You're not usually one to say things you don't mean simply because you're angry."  


  
John felt the same defensive anger rising in his chest and let out a long, slow breath. "And you're not usually one to accuse me of something so far off the mark."  


  
"Was I so far?" Sherlock curled his fingers around John's ear. "You admitted you enjoyed his attentions."  


  
John's eyes slipped half closed and he turned to kiss Sherlock's palm. "Nowhere near the same way I enjoy yours."  


  
"But I can't give you what he could."  


  
John let out a groan, twisting out of Sherlock's grip to push him against the wall, holding him there and staring up at him, _willing_ him to get it. "I _don't want you to._ What I said the other day was horrible - and I _don't mean it,_ I _don't want that_ from you. What kind of idiot would I be to try and force you to feel something for me that you can't? It'd be like...like...I dunno, like you trying to convince me we had a shot at this if I were straight. Don't you see? I lo- I want to be with you. And _yes_ , I want you. I want you every way I'm capable of wanting a person - would you want anything less from me? Would you really want to know I wasn't giving you everything I've got? But I _don't need that_ from you!"  


  
"How can you be so certain of that? How can this possibly work?" Sherlock's eyes were wide and dark - giving John one last chance to end this now, to call it off.   


  
“I don't know. I don't know how it will work, but holy Christ, Sherlock, I want it to. Do you see this power you have over me?” John murmured, pressing kisses against his jaw. “You drive me absolutely bloody _mad._ I _ache_ , I want you so badly, sometimes." He pulled away to look into Sherlock's eyes, laying a gentle hand on his chest. "And I wouldn’t want it any other way. And I don't want _this_ any other way. All right?”  


  
"You wouldn't prefer I - "  


  
"No."  


  
"You don't know what I was going to say."  


  
"Yes, I do. And the answer's still no. No, Sherlock." John kissed him lightly, tasting smoke and coffee on his lips. Smelling chemicals in his skin and hair. Feeling Sherlock's heart begin to beat just a half-count faster than it had been a moment before. He cocked his head to one side, considering the tall man looming above him, all angles and shadows hiding a flame that burned brighter and hotter and _better_ than anything else. "You do want me. You've said so, and I believe you. And you...I believe that you love me. And that's...that's good. That's wonderful."

\----  


  
It took John a while to get used to the idea that Sherlock didn’t _want_ him – not in the way he was used to being wanted, at least. And, to be fair, he was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. But that was what he had been doing from the moment he set foot in 221b that cold January day more than three years ago now – reinventing reality. Reinventing _normalcy._ And it was all thanks to Sherlock.   


  
They were managing. John was still learning, and Sherlock was – well, _Sherlock._ He tolerated kissing, and even sometimes initiated it himself. There were days when he would come home from working a case and proceed to undress John, painstakingly slow, covering each inch of flesh with his lips as it emerged from the confines of John’s clothing – _cataloguing_ , he was fond of saying. Now and again he got John off, always with skillful and nimble fingers. John had protested at first, but for Sherlock it wasn’t about the sexual gratification – not his own, at any rate. It made John happy, he’d said, and it provided him with invaluable information for his hard drive.   


  
He was memorizing John, rewriting old information with the new, every moment of every day. He wanted to know it all; know it over and over again until he had utterly and completely consumed John. And in return, John was not to touch him – no attempts to sneak a hand inside Sherlock’s waistband; no trying to bring him off; no penetration.   


  
And in this way they negotiated their way through their days, putting it together piece by piece.  


  
Building a life.  


  
\----  


  
Sherlock made a grab for John’s wrist and pressed his thumb to the pulse-point, feeling it leap and race as his tongue traced a path along John’s jaw. He paused at the skin just below John’s ear - _gonial angle of the mandible_ \- and sucked, teasing the flesh with his teeth. John drew a shuddering breath, bringing his hand up and pressing it into Sherlock’s hair, holding him there.

_Oh. Sensitive point. Must catalogue for later; see if results can be reproduced._

Sherlock pulled back, watching as red bloomed across John’s skin, and brushed the pad of his thumb across the fresh bruise. Too high for John to cover, even with a scarf. He felt his lips tug into a smile, exposing his teeth.

_Mine_.

He ducked his head for another kiss, hand feeling for John’s chest, positioning it over his heart. It thundered away as he pried open the cracked lips and dipped his tongue inside, tasting, gradually probing until he found John’s. The doctor was hesitant at first, darting away as Sherlock’s tongue brushed across his own, but then Sherlock flicked the tip of his tongue across his upper lip and a groan rumbled up through his chest, reverberating into Sherlock’s own. Sherlock sank into the kiss, pulled down by John’s arms going around him, pressing him closer. John finally parted his knees, spreading his legs, and Sherlock settled fully on top of him. Their chests pressed together, slick skin against slick skin, and John moaned into Sherlock’s mouth at the sudden contact.

_Fascinating_.

Sherlock drew back and started to trail kisses instead down John’s sternum and torso, pausing to swirl his tongue around John’s navel, relishing the soft hiss of breath that provoked from his partner. He hooked his fingers into John’s waistband as his tongue moved back up to his sternum, cataloguing and memorizing the differences in taste and salt content, and John lifted his hips long enough for Sherlock to slide the shorts off, freeing him. John grunted and kicked the shorts off from where they had gotten tangled around his ankles whilst simultaneously kneeing Sherlock in the side, nudging him up. He grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders finally and pulled him so they were face to face and Sherlock was leaning over him once more, one knee nestled between his legs and straddling John’s thigh. Irked slightly at having his explorations interrupted, Sherlock captured John’s lips in a bruising kiss and drew back long enough to mutter, “Yes, I’m sure,” knowing full well John’s reasons for pulling him back up.   


  
And - the fascinating; the _delightful_ thing was - he _was_ sure. John hadn't asked this of him. Did not, would not, expect this of him. This was a gift. A thing he could give John. His John. _His_ John, who loved him, who wanted him, who would not leave him.  


  
"I'm sure," he repeated, the words nearly lost as he fused their lips together, rocking slightly against John's hips.           


  
“Oh - okay,” John gasped, stunned, presumably, by the ferocity of the kiss. Sherlock made note of that, of how John’s lips looked in the aftermath of such a kiss; of how he clung to Sherlock, nails digging into his shoulders, and of how his eyes darkened noticeably, even with the only light in the room coming from the lamp outside their window. “What are you -?”

But Sherlock didn’t wait for him to finish his sentence. He returned to his target area, nipping and licking the hollow of John’s hip before finally focusing on his cock, weeping against his belly. He took it in one go, remembering to relax the muscles of his throat, pleased that the reaction was automatic even though he had not performed such a manoeuver in ages. This was new, for them, and John’s hiss was as much one of surprise as it was one of pleasure. It wasn't a sound of protest, however, not even remotely close, and within moments shaking fingers were gripping his hair and John had been reduced to nothing more than moans and gasps and _Sher - oh - Jesus!_

“You - God,” John muttered later, between gasps, as Sherlock swiped his thumb across his lips, noting the taste - _adequate_ \- before coming back up and laying his head next to John’s on the pillow.

“Flattered though I am by the mistake - and it’s admittedly an easy one to make - I must point out to you that I am, in fact, _Sherlock,_ and not God.”

“Idiot,” John muttered fondly. “No, that’s not - not quite what I meant. I mean...Jesus, Sherlock, that was _unbelievable_.”

“Does your disbelief come from your presumption that I would not perform such an act, or your astonishment that it was pleasurable?”

“Pleasurable? Christ, Sherlock, that wasn’t just pleasurable, that was _mind-blowing_. Bad pun intended.”

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, allowing John to kiss him before he sought out the blankets they had kicked away and arranged them around their bodies. He had experiments to run in the kitchen, but he’d noticed that John preferred he stay for a while after the act. And he couldn’t deny that it was...pleasant, the way that John pressed against his side, his head tucked just under his chin, smelling of musk and sweat in a way that was just _John._

There was a pause, and John drew a breath as though he were about to speak - but the words didn’t come at first, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh. They had been down this conversational path before.

“Are you sure that I can’t - I dunno - do anything...in return?” John asked finally, hesitantly.

“Quite sure.” Sherlock said, and laced their fingers together. He tilted his head to press a kiss to John’s still-sweaty forehead, and added, “I do appreciate the thought, but you need never 'return the favour.'”

“I want -” But John stopped, and Sherlock had to press a hand to his elbow, squeezing lightly, to get him to continue. “I want - this to be enough.”

“Do you doubt me when I tell you that it is?” Sherlock asked, that familiar fear curling in his chest. John wanting him to change; John wanting more than he was able to give.   


  
“No,” John said, but he must have known that Sherlock didn’t believe him, because he added, “Right, only sometimes. Now and again. I wonder. And I don’t _want_ you to change; that’s not it at all. I just wish - I wish, when you tell me it’s enough, I could stop worrying that maybe it isn’t.”  


  
"John." He waited for John to look up at him before continuing, willing him to hear the truth in his voice. "I wasn't looking for you, or for this. I hadn't ever planned...or...hoped...to have anything like this. And yet, here we are. And it's not simply _enough_ , it's not just _sufficient._ It is..." Sherlock pressed his palm to John's chest, counting heartbeats. "It's _wonderful._ It's everything."  


  
\---  


  
John was humming to himself as he made tea.  


  
Sherlock walked past the kitchen, his hair damp from his shower, glancing at John as he passed. He stopped, took two steps backwards, and paused in the doorway, watching.   


  
John looked up. Smiled. "Morning."  


  
"Good morning."  


  
John's smile grew broader and he handed Sherlock a warm mug, sidling past him to get to his desk chair.  


  
"What were you humming?"  


  
"Hm, me? What was I humming?"  


  
"Yes, you, I was hardly asking the skull."  


  
John laughed and shrugged, the back of his neck flushing slightly. "Dunno. That tune you were playing last night, wasn't it?"  


  
"Ah." Sherlock blinked down into his mug. "I - hm. I'm sorry I woke you."  


  
John shook his head, opening his laptop. "I'm not. There are worse ways you could wake me - have woken me, in fact." John glanced over his shoulder. "And it was really good, what was it?"  


  
Sherlock took a quick gulp of scalding tea, waving a hand in dismissal as he shrugged and looked away.  


  
John shook his head. "You wrote that, didn't you."  


  
Sherlock hummed, making his way to the mantel to examine the correspondence pinned under his pocketknife. John grinned at the back of his head, laughed again, and began pecking at his laptop.   


  
As John tugged on his jacket to leave for the surgery, Sherlock loitered by the door, barefoot and still in his dressing gown. John watched him from the corner of his eye, saying nothing. As he stepped to the door, reaching for his keys on the side table, Sherlock stopped him with a hand in the centre of his chest. John looked up, questioning.  


  
"I..." Sherlock blinked, ducked his head on a soft exhale, and looked up to meet his eyes once again on a slight smile. He shook himself, tapping one long finger against John's sternum. "I hope you have a good day, John."  


  
"Oh...kay." John gave a puzzled smile, touching his hip briefly and lifting himself up to kiss the corner of Sherlock's mouth. As Sherlock turned to capture his lips, lingering and deepening the kiss, John chuckled softly, wrapping one arm around Sherlock's narrow waist. When Sherlock paused for breath, John murmured, "Love you too, yeah?"  


  
Sherlock's eyes were closed, but he nodded.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Love isn't supposed to feel like this!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/389347) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)
  * [Love isn't supposed to feel like this! (in color)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/431419) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)




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